


Spiderweb

by This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic (Hobbitfing)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: But no actual torture, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Junkrat is terrible at flirting, Panic Attacks, and at being a boss, pre-Roadrat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic
Summary: When Roadhog met Junkrat.Junkrat knows Roadhog is chasing him, and only has a short time to prepare. He gets caught in his own trap, but rather than killing him, Roadhog offers a solution where they both walk away—at least for the moment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> RP between me and my wife
> 
> This is the first time we've written these two, but I think it means we're no longer inching into the fandom, but actually part of it.

He didn't even realize what he'd found, not at first. But someone knew. Someone knew where he'd been, knew what he'd seen, and knew what it meant. It wasn't hard to tell when that someone put a price on his head, when he became valuable. Junkers weren't known for their loyalty, and Junkrat wasn't surprised when blokes he'd known his whole life started gunning for him. Junkrat couldn't remember a time before the radiation, couldn't remember parents, family. He'd grown up on his own, made it this far by lying low and watching which way the wind blew and by _fucking demolishing_ the occasional wanker who thought he'd be an easy target. Junkrat was a survivor, but they just kept coming and _coming_ and he wasn't stupid, no matter what people thought, and he knew that eventually they'd stop fighting each other long enough to join up and overwhelm him with their orders of multitude more limbs, or someone would just get _lucky_ , and then…and then, well, he'd tell them, and they'd kill him, or he _wouldn't_ tell him, and they'd kill him slow and ugly until he _did_ tell them and _then_ they'd kill him even slower and uglier for taking up their precious time and either way he'd be _dead_ and what use was a fucking treasure when you're _dead_?

And that's when he heard that Roadhog was after him. Now some men might've just rolled over and died then and there, just offed themselves and spared him the trouble, but Rat was _mad_ now. He might not've known what he'd found, but it was his and he intended to keep it until it paid him in something more than a growing heap of bodies, so he kept thinking _one more day, one more day, get through today, see about tomorrow_ while putting as much distance between himself and Junkertown (and the treasure, though they weren't to know that) as he could stumble, ears always pricked for the roar of a motorcycle.

He knew he had a head start and he'd covered his tracks in every way possible before he left. He'd walked all the first day through the blazing heat, knowing no one would be crazy enough to follow him—that's how he'd gotten his treasure in the first place, after all—until he couldn't see and couldn't stop talking—even more than usual—and then past that until he couldn't talk and his stumps _burned_ and he couldn't take one more step and he'd finally collapsed in the shade of a rock and had to wriggle over every half hour to keep himself in its shadow, but he'd lived and gotten far enough ahead of the people who thought he'd leave at nightfall. He rested during the day after that, trudging on mile after mile in the dark until he was crying because of the pain of prosthetic against raw scar tissue. Rested, but didn't sleep. He didn't need much sleep, never had, even when all the killers in the Outback—in the world—weren't after him. He sat in whatever miserable scrap of shade he could find when the sun came up, and he tinkered, and littered the desert behind him with all the nastiest little traps his brain and dwindling supplies could produce.

***

The trail of traps Junkrat left behind was a clear path wiggling across the desert. If Hog went longer than a couple of hours without hitting a trap he doubled back and tried again, but mostly it wasn't too hard to track him. He needed shade to survive and he couldn't make great time without a vehicle.

The motorcycle was loud, and Junkrat would hear him coming a long way off, but he was willing to bet there was nowhere he could hide, and no way he could outrun him. A lot of the tracks the man had left were blown away with the sharp wind. The ground was hard and only the metal leg made any imprints in the earth, so Hog followed the odd, winding track of one small round mark every few feet.  
The traps were vicious, and clever. Hog nearly lost his motorcycle to one of them, and he had to use some of his medical supplies as he went on. This had better be worth it. He'd better be well paid for this.

***

It was pure chance that Rat was within sight of a stony outcrop—rock on three sides with an opening at one end and a few gangly dead trees for cover—when he heard the motorcycle. He snapped up to his full height, listening again. Maybe it'd just been in his brain. It'd happened before. He was listening so hard that his mind'd convinced him he'd heard it, but—no, there it was again, or still. Cursing, he ran-hobbled fast as he could carry himself. If he wasn't at least in some shelter, away from flat, open ground, he wouldn't stand a chance, not without more hours to prepare than he had. He half-crawled into the embracing stone arms, panting and scrawny chest heaving with the effort of having to stay quiet. Wouldn't be too difficult to figure out where he'd gone, but even a few extra seconds might make a difference.

Pack off, both hands scrambling through his dusty gears and wires and shiny bits of metal. He hadn't used all his scrap on his journey, oh no. He'd saved a few special surprises for just such a situation as this.

There were some scrubby, twisted trees in the gully, providing a little bit of shade, a little bit of cover, and plenty of opportunities for traps. Ignoring the building sound of an enormous bike's motor, he plonked down in the sand, legs straight out in front—and oh, how he wanted to remove his prosthetic, let his stump breathe, but he didn't dare. Even being able to hobble was better than nothing. Humming under his breath, he began to twist, and shape, and bend, and create as if his life depended on it—because it _fucking did_. Even at night, the rock radiated heat against his back, but he daren't take the time to drink. Didn't have time. Not for anything. Just shiny bits of metal and wires and gears.

***

The flat landscape finally changed into something new and Hog turned towards it. If he'd been Junkrat, and thankfully he was not, Hog would have headed for the nearby rocks and the few trees that had any leaves left, to see if there was any water worth having, to take some shade from the trees… and most likely set up some more traps for his pursuers who were also likely be looking for a good spot to rest. Turning the headlight on and down towards the opening of the rock formation, he left his bike, the engine dying as he stood. The headlight could run independently of the bike and though it was rare anyone tried to steal it (he did have a reputation, after all) there was a series of kill-switches and it was almost impossible to steal, especially for a man who weighed less than Roadhog. The seat itself was a killswitch and it responded to his weight. He'd rebuilt this bike so many times he'd slowly removed any need for a key. It came to life with his weight on it and for nothing else so far.

There were wires between the trees and he didn't dare go near them. Traps. He looked for a way deeper into the little thicket and struggled to find a place he could fit. Looked like he wasn't going in.

***

It was hard for a man Roadhog's size to move quietly, especially when he wasn't bothering to. Junkrat could feel his pulse throbbing in the roof of his mouth as he listened to the _shoof-shoof-shoof_ of massive, booted feet walking over sand, the creak of over-strained leather, the muffled sound of his breathing behind that infamous mask. Rat's heart attempted to scrabble its way out of his chest, and while he was tempted to join it, he pressed his flesh hand to his ribs and _pushed_ , forcing it to stay as still and quiet as he had to be, even though neither of them liked it and it didn't come naturally to either.

He hadn't thought—but he had hoped—that the other Junker'd be stupid enough to actually cut through the criss-cross spiderweb of wires that (beautifully, in Junkrat's mind) laced the skeletal tree limbs, and he was disappointed to hear Roadhog move past the inviting (wires aside) opening into the little canyon to explore the surrounding rock. There was only one entrance, and that was good. Well, two—one in front and one above, open to the sky, but there wasn't much he could do about that, not with so little time, not without risking blowing himself up with anything he could rig. If only he could just sink into the sand like a snake, _shhh shhh_ , right up to his eyeballs and his hair'd just look like a spiky little plant, and he could stay there, safe from the heat and everything else, until Roadhog gave up and went away or blew himself up and Rat could have his pickings of the corpse.

Nothing to do now and wait and pretend—at least until Roadhog actually, really realized he was there—that the canyon was empty. That a big, wiry spider'd come by, that was all.

Hopefully the pig couldn't climb.

***

In the light from his headlight, Roadhog could see more tracks. Now, beside the deeper holes where Junkrat's little metal leg had pushed through the dirt, there were other tracks, from a solitary boot. He had to be nearby, otherwise he would have wiped these away. The tracks led into the little ditch and didn't come out. Circling, it was obvious there was no way out. Roadhog looked around, slowly. He'd hear if anyone was running nearby; there was just no way to be quiet on the rock and sand. The rat had found a little hidey hole, he was willing to bet. He'd heard someone on his tail and he'd tucked himself somewhere no one could reach.

Still, it wouldn't be impossible to outwait him. He was willing to bet he had more supplies on him than his target. He had a bike to carry things, after all, and Rat was just running.

***

Rat didn't like being on the wrong end of a trap, and that's what this situation was rapidly turning into. The fact that he hadn't had any other options just made it rankle. He could hear Roadhog, circling his little shelter, looking for a way in, or for a place to wait him out. Rat shifted his hip, feeling the too-light swish of his canteen. He couldn't hold out for long, and he had a feeling the enforcer knew it too.

But if Roadhog was around the back of the rock formation, he wasn't _in front_. Where his bike was. Sitting there, all nice and unguarded, just waiting for clever little hands to start it up. Rat'd never ridden a motorcycle before, but he was _motivated_ to learn in a right hurry. Traps were no good if he got caught in his own explosions, and he'd left himself a small, carefully disguised route out of the canyon, for just such an eventuality as this, even if he hadn't known it at the time. He crawled out on his belly, inch by slithery inch, listening, listening, listening. Still on the other side of the rock. Couldn't see, couldn't hear, take him some time to get back even if he realized what had happened. Slither forward, dart out his tongue—no, that still didn't do anything for him, right. He risked standing, the tip of his prosthetic leg digging uselessly into the sand until it sank deep enough to support him. There was the bike, big beautiful thing. He could ride out of here, right past the man he'd stolen it from, who'd been hunting him.

There was no keyhole. Well, not that Rat had any keys, but keyholes were a good place to start. Grumbling, Rat fished out a screwdriver and—roughly but quietly—started prying off panels. The wiring was all wrong everywhere he looked shit and he was running out of time it'd only take Roadhog so long to circle back around and then he'd see Rat standing there with a stupid look on his face and it'd be a right _awkward_ moment, socially speaking. Oh, and he'd probably die.

Visibly leaning this way and that—toward the bike, toward the canyon—as he tried to decide, listening hard for sounds of Roadhog's return, Rat threw down the piece he'd removed, spared a moment to kick the wretched bike with his prosthetic leg, and shuffled back to the rocks as quietly as possible. His stump was an unrelenting ache; even if, somehow, he managed to avoid Roadhog, he wouldn't be going far for a few days at least, not after how hard he'd pushed himself to get here and lying around with sand caught between the prosthetic and his stump, grinding away at him.

At the metallic clang near his bike, Hog started back towards the opening of the little hidey hole at a jog.

Hearing heavy footsteps approaching, Rat moved too quickly. The joint of his prosthetic elbow hooked on a wire and he fell forward. His eyes widened, and he slowly, slowly let out a breath. " _Fuck_ ," he whispered, not daring to move. He'd landed on an active wire; one wrong twitch, and he was done for. A spider caught in his own web. Stuck. Completely bloody fucking useless, with someone waiting to kill him just outside. He was, welly and truly, _fucked_.

There was a loud thump as Roadhog cleared the last of the trees and he paused. There was his target; a skinny little thing with a prosthetic arm and leg, flopped over where one of the wires was. Shit, he was going to blow them both up at this rate. Hog hesitated. Did he run, or did he try to untangle this …kid? If he left, no one would ever learn the location of the treasure. If he stayed, he might die.

The kid whimpered and that decided it. Hog walked his bike a little closer so he could see better, then knelt not too far from his target, looking everything over. It didn't seem like it was going off, but Junkrat wasn't moving either, so clearly he thought it would explode if he moved wrong.

One breath. Another. Junkrat was still breathing, so he was still alive. Probably. Right? Right. "Don't shoot me in the bum, alright?" he called out. He flinched; raising his voice had shifted his chest slightly, but he was still in one piece. Well, as many pieces as he'd started with. Today.

"I need you alive." Roadhog could see in the light of the headlight how raw the bomb maker's leg was, how thin he was, all the little bumps of his spine sticking out. "How do I diffuse it?"

Rat wiggled his toes in his too-large boot, experimentally, needing movement to help him think through this. "Not really giving me incentive, mate," he admitted. Better to be blown to bits, all nice and quick, than…sliced to bits, or whatever Roadhog's employers had in mind for him.

True, torture was hardly incentive to stay alive, and to keep Roadhog alive too.

And fuck, this kid was so tiny. And it seemed like almost half of him had already been blown up or hacked off. Roadhog went still and quiet for a little bit, thinking.

The silence was unnerving, especially because he couldn't move, couldn't shuffle around and see what the other bloke was doing. "What're you doin'?" he asked, body tight and straining with the effort to keep still. His hands were trembling, and he told himself it was only because of the stillness. He wasn't afraid. Not of dying, not of being blown to bits (how he'd prefer to go, really), not even of knives and guns and worse things. His mind was racing, tick-tick-ticking away, racing, expending all the energy his body couldn't. There had to be a way out of this, a good way, a not-blown-to-bits way, but _what_.

Junkrat was starting to shake, almost vibrate with fear and energy, and Roadhog frowned. He was going to get them both killed. "Thinking. Stay still."

"I know," Rat replied, almost a whine, "'m not stupid, no matter what people think. Just…" He gave a sad little hum. "Can't you think out loud?" he complained, "Let me know what you're doing at least?"

"I don't want to explode right now. I doubt you do either." Hog was a little surprised at himself, it wasn't often he put his thoughts into words, especially with other people. "You would rather die like this than by torture. The best way to both get what we want is for me to diffuse the bomb promising that I won't torture you, but you're not likely to believe it. The bounty on you is high, but…" Roadhog sighed, he couldn't believe he was even thinking this. "The treasure's worth more." There was another pause. "You can't keep going like this. You've probably barely eaten, or slept, in weeks. You need a bodyguard. But if I agree to work for you, that means all of my contacts will disappear and I won't be able to show my face anywhere." Fuck, it was so much money. He'd given his word that he'd bring Rat back or at least the information, but it wasn't looking likely. He trailed off, thinking of the pros and cons while Junkrat digested what he'd said.

Rat hadn't actually expected his question to be answered. He felt his leg start trembling, stilled it. His eyes widened and his breathing sped up, to the point that he worried the pounding of his heart would be enough to trigger the detonation. Roadhog had just said exactly what he was thinking, laid the situation out perfectly. "It is worth more," he agreed, "but what's to stop you from getting me out of here, knocking me out and throwin'g me over the back of your bike like," he giggled, " a pig?" Everything he'd said was true—too true, uncannily true, like he'd been listening to Junkrat's rambling while he walked. Couldn't've. Right? Right.

Bodyguard. Yeah, he liked the thought of that. _Important_ people had bodyguards. He wouldn't set himself up like some of them, all high and mighty, but having someone else to help watch his back, 'specially someone as big and threatening and scary as Roadhog…yeah, that sounded good. Too good, obviously, but…it was a nice thought. And…it's the thought that counts?

Hog grimaced. "I'm going to put my hand on your leg." Junkrat couldn't stop twitching and he was worried the wire was going to get tugged or released or whatever it needed to send them both sky high. Still, best to warn someone before touching them, that was almost sure to end in a reaction. He waited until he was sure Junkrat had heard him, then put his hand on the man's calf. Gentle pressure might help. It was all he could think of.

"I'd be getting more out of it in the end, but we'd both have to trust the other not to betray us. You could pretend to agree and kill me later or lead me into a trap." This was a risk, not just to trust the rat at least a little, but to even consider fucking with his employer. Being on Junkrat's side was to be against the world, literally. Cops and junkers alike were after him. Would it be worth it?

Junkrat stiffened, forcing himself to stay still even when that massive hand—could easily crush his leg, snap it in half like a matchstick—landed on him. "That's true," he conceded. Just like Roadhog could turn on him, he could do the same. If he had to. If… Bodyguard. Tempting. Too tempting, but a few more minutes alive was a few more minutes alive. "Might be years," he cautioned. "Don't wanna get your hopes up about this one. Lotta years and lotta running and lotta…everything. Bad everything, mostly. Could just leave me here, walk away." He laughed, shrilly. "Could just yank me right out and be done with it all. 'Little piece of Junkrat here, little piece of Roadhog here, not sure who this one belonged to. Junkhog. Roadrat. All mixed together.'"

Roadhog was silent for a moment. "Tell me how to diffuse it and we'll go from there."

"Right. I've got a pair of wire cutters in my back pocket, if you can reach your giant arm in here without touching anything but me." Rat laughed again. "Be like bloody tweezers for you, but…have you got some? You could use a pair of them…what're they called…garden shears!" Another laugh. "Yeah, that'd be about right for you." He wriggled backward, very, _very_ carefully, just a few inches, to put his pocket closer to Roadhog. "Just…if you can walk your hand up my leg, you should be fine. Maybe. I can't fucking see." He tried to lift his head, look behind him, but stopped the motion when he felt his chest shift infinitesimally, lying back down with a defeated sigh.

"I've got some on my bike." Roadhog stood, letting go of Junkrat's leg carefully and going back to his bike and unlocking his saddlebags, pulling out his wire cutters. Hopefully they were small enough, he did need a pretty big pair to fit his hands. When he got back to Rat he knelt again, waiting for instructions.

Rat took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes. He didn't like it, but he didn't like much of anything right now. He forced himself to picture the web of tripwires he'd set, and the dummy ones between them that were safe. Traced the path through them, around them, adding a lot of space for a much bigger arm…there, should be enough, just barely. At least he'd just gotten some bits of coloured wire, so it wouldn't all look the same. He went still and quiet, to the place in his head and body where he built things. "What colour's the wire above me to my ri—left, to my left?" he asked, his voice losing its shrillness for the first time since he'd gotten stuck. Fuck, he'd have to do everything backwards, too. Good thing he liked puzzles, especially ones that were solved by destroying them.

It took him a second to be sure. He had to lift his mask just to be sure he was correct, but he pulled it back down immediately. "The one to the left is green."

"Ok, good, that's good. Don't touch that one. Unless you want…" Rat frowned, unable to make his accustomed hand motion, "boom." Eyes still closed, he traced that wire back to the closest junction, what else was anchored there, followed the second back out from there just to be sure. "Pink one just under it?"

"Yes."

"C-cut… Cut that one." It was the faceful of sand that'd made him stammer, that was all.

He'd stuttered. Was he deciding to end it? Or was he just nervous? Roadhog gritted his teeth and cut the wire. He was breathless for a second, then sighed softly. Nothing had gone off, it was good.

Junkrat was silent for the same breath, and they exhaled together. "Good. Alright, good. Now, you should have enough room to reach over the green one—don't touch it, not even a little—and get to the one underneath. It's blue. Or maybe orange?" He laughed. "I hope you're not colourblind. Cut that one." He sounded much more confident now, or at least he hoped he did. "After that just…" he did a quick mental count, "three more." Fuck, that was a lot of wire! He was glad, now, that he'd had so little time to prepare before Roadhog's arrival. Imagine the mess if he'd had hours rather than minutes…! Four wires. He could do this. They could do this.

"It's blue." Hog couldn't help but tense when he had to cut the wire. It fell and he breathed again. So far, so good.

"Good, good!" it ended in a long, tittering laugh. Feeling like maybe, maybe his lungs wouldn't crawl out of his throat in fear, Junkrat carefully instructed Roadhog how to cut him free, afraid the massive man wouldn't be able to reach into a small enough area, or that Roadhog would cut the wrong wire, or that he'd remembered his own wiring wrong, or…

A final _twang_ , and there was a more or less open path behind him, at least according to his mental image of the wires. "Can you reach my legs, get a good grip on them?" He paused, shook his head. "Just my meaty leg; can't risk the other coming off." He felt a sneeze brewing, scrunched his face up tight. And wouldn't _that_ be an embarrassing way to go—killed by his own sneeze in his own bloody trap!

"You want me to pull you out?" Roadhog frowned. That didn't sound like a great idea. Still, he put his hand on Rat's leg, just above the knee. He couldn't reach much higher than that without risking touching a wire.

Rat started to shrug, realized that'd be a mistake. "Take too long to cut all the way to the centre," he explained, "I can't stay in this position long enough. Just…give me a real good yank, hard as you can—" He laughed. "Well, not _that_ hard, you'll rip my fucking leg off, but _hard_ , and fall over backward. We'll be fine. Probably. Yeah, we'll be fine." He hadn't had much left in the way of shrapnel, had to use it sparingly. The explosives were all tied together, so if one blew, they all did, but each _individual_ charge was small. He was sure—mostly sure—that the particular one he was tangled in wasn't one with shrapnel, that there would be enough of a delay between that one going and it triggering the next for them to get a safe (enough) distance away. Hopefully. Right. "Big hand," he commented. "The rest of you—no, not the time or place for that really, is it?" A nervous giggle. "When I say so, you pull, alright?"

"Is it going to explode when I pull you?" Hog just wanted to clarify. If things were going to explode, he was going to grab his leather jacket before he did this.

"Yes. Just a little. I think. Yeah. Definitely. …Yes."

"I'll be right back. Stay still." Hog stood again and headed back to his bike. His very worn leather jacket was most of the armour he had besides his heavy steel toed boots. It wasn't often he wore it in the heat, but he'd kept it, partially just out of sentimental value. It was one of the very few things he had from before the radiation.

Pulling on the jacket, he backed up his bike a little, just to be safe, before heading back to Rat. "Ready?"

"Me too." Wait, that wasn't right. "I mean, yes." Rat swallowed, hard. "Ready." As soon as he felt Roadhog start pulling, he arched himself up and off the wire, feeling it pull tight, still caught on his joint. For a horrible moment he wasn't sure he'd get free, and he'd just have blown himself up for nothing, but either the wire broke or came untwisted at a join, and then he was falling backward. He tucked himself into as tight a ball as possible, instinctively throwing himself behind the solid wall of meat and leather who'd gotten him out. A flash, a heartbeat before the sound and shockwave hit them—small, at least by Rat's standards. He crawled farther away, pulling with his prosthetic hand at any part of Roadhog he could reach, trying to pull him away and onto his front, forgetting that he had the mask to shield his face. Clever, that. Might be worth looking into. A breath, or maybe no time had passed, and the second explosion. Fourth. Sixth and seventh, almost on top of each other. Rat sat up, grinning the way he always did when something had exploded and it wasn't him. He nudged Roadhog with his flesh elbow. "Still with us?"

Hog looked down at Junkrat silently for a moment, then stood, offering him a hand up.

"Close enough, anyway. Scare the talking out of ya?" Rat grinned, taking the hand. Fuck, he was huge, and Rat recalled his earlier question. If they were sticking together, there was plenty of time to find out if all of him was that big. "So, what now? I've never had a bodyguard before."

"I follow you where you're going and make sure you stay alive. We split the treasure 50-50." Hopefully that would be simple enough, though judging by today, life was about to get a lot more exciting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently my 'Rat really likes dialogue tags that aren't 'said', and I'm so sorry. Also italics *heh*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat realizes how close he came to dying, and Roadhog is a good bodyguard.

"Where _am_ I going?" Rat asked, realizing too late that he'd said it out loud. Not very confidence-inspiring, but nothing he could do about it now.

Busy loading some of Junkrat's supplies into his saddlebags, Hog turned to look at him. "You don't have a plan?" He wasn't really surprised. Rat had really cornered himself here, that wasn't terribly well planned out.

"I always have a plan. Just don't always know what it is ahead of time." Junkrat kicked at a streak of ash on the sand. He'd been avoiding looking at the destruction he'd narrowly avoided, never mind going in. It had felt strange, letting Roadhog enter the little canyon and carry his things; he wasn't used to having someone do the work for him, and he definitely wasn't used to letting people handle his gear. From Roadhog, though, it didn't feel like pity. Roadhog was just doing what needed doing, and it had nothing to do with the number or condition of Junkrat's limbs.

Roadhog had been untangling wires and remnants and picking up shrapnel as he went back and forth from Junkrat's little hideout back to his bike. If nothing else he could use it in his scrap gun. He reached for another skinny bag that Junkrat must have been carrying. How that bag of bones had been carrying all this on his own without a vehicle was beyond Roadhog.

"Not that one, mate," Junkrat cautioned, hurrying through the sand as best he could. "Needs a bit of a delicate touch." He had little enough in the way of explosives supplies without damaging them now. Ideally, he would've cushioned them a bit before the blast, but it had hardly been an ideal situation. He knelt in front of the bag, doing a quick inventory and damage assessment. Everything was intact, by some stroke of luck. He kept his body between Roadhog and the bag's contents—didn't need everyone knowing his business.

He hefted the entirely-too-light bag, frowning thoughtfully. "Be nice to not have to carry everything. Need supplies." He'd almost never gone far from Junkertown, especially on his own. He couldn't go back, but he didn't know where else to go, anyone else who'd be able to provide the chemicals and other raw materials he needed.

Junkrat passed him the bag and he took it, tying them on by his saddlebags. For now, he wanted to keep their things separate.

There was a sun-bleached piece of wood sticking out of the sand, the end slightly scorched and badly splintered in the explosion, one of the largest remaining pieces of the dead trees that had gathered in the canyon. "Almost looks like a bone, eh…?" But Roadhog had moved out of hearing, adding the last load of Rat's belongings to the bike.

Junkrat sat down, hard. It did look like a bone, and it suddenly struck him how easily it could've been. The rock walls were red in the harsh beam of Roadhog's headlight, and he imagined them redder, covered in a fine mist of blood and bone and all things formerly Junkrat. So close.

He shivered. Just the cold, going from sweating while he worked in an enclosed space, and then had to keep still, and then the explosion, to up and about in the open air.

He shivered again, and then he couldn't stop. He curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around knees. His eyes were wide, and his whole body was shaking, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't make himself move, and Roadhog would be back any second wondering why he was taking so long, why he'd suddenly turned into a snivelling piece of shit, why he should bother with him at all. Junkrat was half tempted to tell him where the treasure was and how to get it, just so Roadhog would go away and wouldn't see him like this. He wasn't crying, not quite, but that probably had more to do with dehydration than anything else. He was just fucking _useless_ , sitting there staring at the stupid branch, waiting for Roadhog to come back and find him there.

Roadhog did come back, waiting a moment just out of reach while he considered what to do. Junkrat was having a reaction after the explosion, understandably, shaking and chest heaving. He wasn't sure Rat would appreciate him acknowledging it or offering him comfort. Might take it as an insult. He probably would feel safer if they didn't camp here, though, even though it was kind of a nice little niche. There would be others after them eventually and he didn't want to tempt fate after they'd nearly died here already. There was still time to travel before it got hot, dawn was just barely on the horizon. "Come on, boss. Bike's ready."

Swallowing hard, Rat managed a nod somehow. From there, he got one of his arms loose and planted it in the sand, used it to push himself forward. Then the other arm, falling forward onto his knees. From there, a bit of a scramble and then he was on his feet, a little surprised to be up so high all of a sudden. One foot—well, the base of his prosthetic, anyway; couldn't really be properly called a foot—and then the other, and then he was walking out of the horrible little trap, and then he was _running_ , passing Roadhog, laughing wildly. It felt so good to move. That's all it'd been, he realized. Staying still so long'd gotten to him, made him freeze up, but now that he was up and moving about he was just fine. Fine.

He examined the motorcycle, and immediately noticed another problem, much more urgent than the lack of keyhole. There was only one seat—a large one, to be fair, but…he glanced at the leather seat and then eyed Roadhog critically. He shook his head. "Not enough room."

"You'll have to sit in front, but I'm driving." Hog wasn't sure it was possible for Junkrat to sit behind him and actually hold on to that much bulk. He'd never tried it. They'd have to get a sidecar or something eventually. They could hold more supplies that way too. Watching him scramble around like a puppy, he wondered how this man had ever managed to make a bomb without blowing himself up. He had so much energy.

"Yeah, that'll work. It'll just be…snug." Junkrat would pretty much be straddling the gas tank, but it was a far cry better than trudging around on foot carrying all his stuff like an idiot. And, alright, he wasn't entirely unmoved by the thought of Roadhog's massive bulk pressed against his back, arms more or less wrapped around him to grab the handlebars. Another shiver, this time a happy one, and he quickly climbed on in a futile hope of hiding his arousal. He slid forward as far as he could. "Pretty much going to get fucked by the tip of your seat, aren't I?" Shit, he'd said that out loud. He'd never been especially good at what he thought turning into what he said, but now he'd been alone for weeks and it hadn't mattered at all. Maybe Roadhog would be merciful and just squish him out of his misery. Could probably do it with his legs alone, Junkrat reckoned.

Roadhog just laughed, settling his huge bulk on the bike. It immediately roared to life with a creak of leather.

"You didn't use a key, you wanker!" Junkrat laughed, shouting to be heard over the sound of the engine. He was soon distracted with staying on. Even with Roadhog's arms around him, he found he had to do a lot of strategic positioning and balancing—which hadn't been his strong suit when he'd still had four limbs. It was exhilarating and exhausting and it took him a long time to realize he hadn't actually told Roadhog where to go, even though he'd asked, but at least they weren't heading back toward Junkertown. Unless—shit—what if a suit had hired Roadhog to find the treasure? Moving very slowly and carefully, Junkrat craned his head back to look up at Roadhog. Couldn't see his face, of course, so that wasn't much help, but there was an interesting little nick in the black leather where Roadhog's chin would be. It occupied him for a few seconds until he remembered that he was supposed to be assessing the situation. No way of knowing at this point, not really, he decided. He'd just have to go with it. He was hardly defenseless; as Roadhog himself had said, there was nothing stopping him from killing the other Junker if he had to. For now, he had the wind in his face, a strong arm around his middle, and the Outback flying past around him.

Roadhog got them to a rocky outcropping he'd seen in the distance before the sun was truly up. He parked them in the shade and got out some supplies for camping. He pulled out his bedroll and tossed it close to the rock so it would stay cool. Junkrat hadn't had any camping supplies, and precious little food and water. There wasn't much in the way of fuel for a fire so they'd have to do without. That was alright, there were still likely junkers tracking them and smoke might not be a good idea.

Hog pulled out one of his canteens and a few cans of food. He wondered how much Junkrat usually ate; didn't look like much. He probably wouldn't have to get twice as much food from now on, but it wouldn't be a bad idea. Twice as much water for sure. After a long drink, he handed the canteen to Junkrat.

"When we find a junkyard we should look for a sidecar, or try to make one."

Junkrat's legs were shaking again when he dismounted, but this time he could honestly say it was because of the rattling and vibrations and energy. He would've thought, if anyone had asked him, that riding a motorcycle was fairly passive, but he was _exhausted_.

Distracted by the water, Junkrat nodded absently as he took the canteen. He closed his eyes as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful—Roadhog's canteen was as big as the rest of him, and a few little rat-drinks wouldn't use up anything close to all of it—making almost sexual sounds of pleasure as he swallowed. Wiping his mouth with a grin as he handed it back, he remembered that Roadhog had said something. "Aw, you don't wanna travel across Australia with me as a bloody hood ornament?" he laughed. "Nah, 's a great idea, actually. Can carry more stuff that way, too." He laughed again, inclining his head back toward the bike. "Though I could almost fit in one of those saddlebags of yours, if they were empty." He blinked. "Where are we going, anyway?" He eyed the cans of food, but didn't let his gaze linger. Bodyguard or not, food was a valuable commodity, and this was Roadhog's food. Fresh food—and canned was about the freshest to be had—was a special luxury. Roadhog, Junkrat considered, must've been doing pretty well for himself, and now he'd gone and—supposedly—thrown it all away to go mucking about with him. Not bloody likely, Junkrat told the parts of him that protested that he liked Roadhog. Not. Bloody. Likely.

Still, the trip to a junkyard was always a treat, especially when looking for something in particular. People had thrown away all kinds of things before, and Rat only wished he'd been around at the time to yell at them. Actually, he didn't. Kind of wished he could thank them for being such idiots.

"We were going here. Needed a place to sleep. Beyond that…" He shrugged. "This is your show, boss."

Roadhog popped open one of the cans for himself, handing another can to Junkrat, unopened. It was the best way to encourage trust. Couldn't tamper with a sealed can. Most were unlabeled, though the fruit ones usually were for some reason. The unlabeled ones were usually soup or lentils, or sometimes pork and beans. Though Roadhog found eating meat fairly disgusting, he knew he needed the energy and he couldn't afford to be picky. It was one of the few times Mako really came to the surface. He used to be a vegetarian.

His rations were pretty high quality, he'd paid a lot for them. "Eat. No one knows we're working together yet. Next town we reach, I go in alone and get supplies."

Junkrat's eyes widened when he was offered the food, then immediately narrowed. Definitely suspicious. The can didn't look tampered with, but this was too good to be true. He considered saying he had to piss and taking the can with him so he could inspect it more carefully, but that would scream that he was suspicious. He cracked the can and gave it a token sniff—not that he cared what it was, as long as it was food, and he didn't plan on eating this anyway—and watched Roadhog, waiting for him to start eating.

Roadhog tossed Junkrat a clean spoon. Those were pretty rare these days and he had three just in case. He dug into his food—some kind of chicken soup with rice—and watched Rat inspect the can for any tampering.

After staring at the spoon as though it was a relic from an ancient tribe—which, in a way it was to him—Junkrat set it aside. "Trade ya?" He offered, as nonchalantly as possible, holding out his open and untouched can.

Wordlessly, Hog handed over his partially eaten dinner, trading with Junkrat. It made sense to be paranoid, it'd be much easier to off him with poison. They'd eat canned food together for awhile. It'd make them both feel safer.

Foregoing the spoon, Junkrat tipped the can back and downed as much as would comfortably fit in his mouth, plus a little extra. He closed his eyes with bliss. Whatever it was had much more flavour than the bland, unspiced food he was used to—it was almost too much. It was better than anything he'd ever eaten, and that included the two-headed catfish he'd caught with his bare hands and cooked on the shore, gulping down half-burnt, half-raw chunks before anyone noticed him. It was delicious, and it was very hard for him to put the can back down, but, he decided, Roadhog was so much bigger than him that maybe he'd acclimated himself to whatever drug he might've added, or it would just take a lot more of it to effect him than Junkrat. Best not to risk it.

Roadhog usually saved the canned fruit for rough days. Not much in the way of comfort food out here, but sweet canned peaches often helped. He opened the can where Junkrat could see, and spooned out half a peach, chewing it slowly. He offered it to Junkrat. The sweet syrup would do him good after his scare earlier.

This can—peaches, according to the label—received the same intense scrutiny, though it was honestly getting too dark to see much and he was dangerously close to falling asleep right on the spot. After a careful sniff didn't tell him much about the can's contents, his little pointed tongue darted out to lick the juice. His eyes widened, and in an instant his flesh hand dived into the sticky fluid. He was content to lick his fingers clean for a minute, and then he encountered a peach, which promptly disappeared. _Sweet_ was so rare for a low-level Junker like Rat—like Rat _had_ been, he reminded himself. He was important now, with a treasure and bodyguard of his very own. Caution forgotten, all too soon the can was empty, Junkrat risking a cut tongue to lovingly lave the inside for every drop of sweet nectar. He reluctantly set the empty can down beside himself, rubbing his tummy with a happy sigh. He felt warm and sticky and golden, just like the peaches. "You look splendid," he murmured to Roadhog, feeling almost drunk and wanting to share how good he felt.

Roadhog laughed. "Thought you might like that." He took off his leather jacket and lay it down on the ground. He'd sleep on that today, Junkrat could have the bed roll. Luckily the sand wasn't too bad to sleep on if you made sure there weren't any odd shapes under you. He gave it a cursory rake with his boot before sitting down, back to the stone outcropping. "Will you be able to sleep? It'd be better if I kept watch."

Rat grumbled a bit, knowing he was being laughed at, but he ended up laughing himself; it was pretty funny, a grown Junker getting this excited about a bit of canned fruit. Wiping tacky juice from his mouth, he nodded, already yawning. He really wanted—almost to the point that it had become a need—to remove his prosthetics and wash his stumps, let them breathe for a while, but he didn't dare immobilize himself. Flopping over onto his side, he curled up in a tight ball to conserve heat. "I'll take second watch?" he offered. He usually preferred first, getting it over with, but he was so tired. He wouldn't be able to sleep all that deeply, not in the company of a Junker he knew'd been sent after him, but even just closing his eyes would be such a relief. Full belly, warm sand, a bike to carry his things so he didn't have to…what more could he ask for?

Roadhog listened for any change in the desert around them. He heard scorpions and a few lizards out in the sand but nothing big enough to worry about; no voices, no vehicles. He spared a glance for Junkrat. Hog was so used to being alone he often forgot to use words. He'd neglected to tell Rat that the bed roll was his for now. "You take the bed til second watch."

Barely opening his eyes, Junkrat grinned. "You sure?" He heard the little animals, too, and ordinarily he would've been up seeing if he could track them down, but he was full, so he and the creatures could have the night off.

Roadhog nodded, patting it. The way Junkrat moved, it was obvious he was sore. Where his prosthetics met the skin he was red and sore looking, but it was doubtful he'd take them off around Hog quite yet. Another thing to get when they were in town; some medical supplies to help with that.

Despite the risk of getting tangled if he had to move quickly—again—Rat rolled himself up in the bedding until he was a little taco, sighing with bliss. "Comfy," he murmured by way of thanks, a little muffled. If Roadhog replied, he didn't hear it, and within minutes he was snoring softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suspicious!Junkrat is suspicious


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Junkers visit a junkyard, and Junkrat still has no idea how to be a boss.

Roadhog's gear was already packed, and he was sitting on his motorcycle watching Junkrat fiddle around their little camp, picking something up, putting it down, grabbing something else, almost packing it away in a saddlebag before changing his mind again. Roadhog had to know he was stalling by this point, but…well, he was the boss now, and the boss couldn't ask too many questions, right? The boss had to just _know_ things, all the time.

Junkrat shook his head, swallowing hard. No, that sounded terrible. "How about…the boss gets to make the final decision, but he can ask all the questions he likes?" Fuck, he'd said that part out loud, hadn't he?

"Questions about what?" Roadhog asked. Junkrat had been skittering about like a little cockroach all morning. He couldn't figure out what was making him so nervous, but it was putting Hog on edge.

"Hmm…anything. Anything he likes." Junkrat nodded decisively. He could figure this whole boss thing out, no problem. He deposited his bomb-making kit carefully in one of the saddlebags, patting it firmly. "Don't…you think." He tried to turn the question into a statement at the end. Roadhog worked for him; he thought whatever Rat wanted him to think. Not that he wanted that, not really, but if he wasn't careful, Roadhog would end up the boss and Junkrat would be…he didn't know. Not that he really knew _now_ , but at least he was in charge of not knowing.

Roadhog frowned behind his mask, not sure what Junkrat meant, but nodded anyway. "Sure, boss. Let's go before sun's too high."

Climbing onto the motorcycle behind his bodyguard, Junkrat grabbed a good double handful of Roadhog's harness so he wouldn't fall off. "The junkyard, right!" He'd forgotten—they already had a plan! They were off to a great start. "Good ide—" Wait, had it been his idea or Roadhog's? Should he take credit, even if it wasn't, or should he give _Roadhog_ the credit, even if it had been his idea? "Bet it's been a while since you had to do this." Better to just change the subject, really.

Well, apparently the little Rat could hold onto the back of his harness while they were on the bike. He'd worried that it was only possible for Rat to ride in front. The little junker seemed to be having some kind of inner argument and Roadhog decided to stay out of it. They rode in relative silence, the roar of the bike filling the air instead.

Junkrat talked, because he was nervous, and excited, and because Roadhog didn't tell him to shut up with his words or fists. Might not have even been able to hear him over the engine, but that was alright. The kind of talking Rat was doing didn't need listeners to make him feel better. He talked for his own benefit, mostly, and if Roadhog made the occasional noise that could possibly be interpreted as a response, well, that was alright too.  It had been awhile since Roadhog had been to collect scrap. Luckily he knew a good place, and it was only a day's ride. They got there early evening, and the sky was still glowing that terrible bruise-yellow that it always did when the sun was up. Looking down at Junkrat, Hog wondered if he could ever remember the sky being a different colour. Probably not.  "Might not find a sidecar," he warned Rat, the first words he'd said since they'd left their camp that morning.

Junkrat scoffed. "Wouldn't want one if we did." Fuck, how long had it been since Roadhog'd had to forage for scrap, if that was what he thought? He licked his lips, hoping he could say what he needed properly, so Roadhog would understand. "Don't want something somebody else made. Might take parts of it, but not the whole kit 'n kaboodle. The whole," he giggled, "hog." He tapped his peg leg against the side of the motorcycle, careful not to get it caught on anything. "You wouldn't want some bike built by suits, would you? You'd want to make it your own, know every single part, wouldn't you?"

"The shell would be useful," he growled. "And the wheels." This little brat correcting him like he was a child rubbed him the wrong way. "It would be the easiest way to find the right kind of scrap."

Fuck, he'd gone too far. Junkrat nodded, meek, forgetting any of this boss nonsense. Boss. How could someone like him be a boss to someone like Roadhog. "Don't have all that much time," he conceded, "be nice to find something we can just use in a hurry, eh?"

He nodded, heading into the piles of junk, looking for anything that could be useful. He let Rat do the same, in his own way.

Junkrat whistled, skipping off into the scrapyard with a happy shout. "Holy dooley, this place is a fucking goldmine!" he crowed. Laughing, he added, "Never really understood that one. Not much use for gold, is there?" The place was far from any Junker communities, and it would be a long trip to haul anything substantial back, so there were still plenty of large pieces of scrap to choose from. Junkrat darted from heap to heap, placing some things to the side that would be useful, bemoaning the fact that they couldn't take others with them. "This'd fetch a pretty penny back in Junkertown, eh, Hoggie?" He cocked his head to the side, frowning. "Mind if I call you that?"

Roadhog grunted, neither a yes or a no. "Can you weld?"

"I can, actually!" Junkrat said, proudly. "It's a funny story how I—another time, another time." He couldn't see Roadhog's expression through his mask, obviously, but Junkrat hadn't survived this long without being able to read people—the set of someone's shoulders, a shift in their stance. Roadhog wasn't interested in hearing a story right now. "Pity. It's a good one." Hopping back to his piles, Junkrat muttered and sifted his way through the items they'd gathered, tossing a few aside, shuffling others to a different pile, until he nodded in satisfaction. "You'll definitely come in handy for this. I'm no weakling, but it'd be a nightmare to handle all this by myself."

He glanced up at the sky. "Not much more we can do tonight, unless you fancy having a fire—and _I_ don't." Fire attracted predators—human, animal, and other. Roadhog was good protection, but one bodyguard could only do so much if an attack came in force.

"Tomorrow." Roadhog shrugged. There was a nice little hill where they could park the bike and set up camp. "I'll take first watch."

Junkrat, already yawning, nodded his agreement. "Sounds good, mate." He needed to get a second bodyguard, so he'd have one to do the first and second watches, and he could just…sleep through the night, and wasn't that a lovely thought? Or would that just mean that two watches became three and he'd still have to take one? Well, each one would be shorter, right, or would the night just get longer the more people you added? No, that didn't make sense.

He grabbed the bedroll and laid it out on a clearish patch of cement. They still only had one, not that it mattered, because they wouldn't be sleeping together—at the same time. Of course they wouldn't be sleeping together, not tonight, not any night. He was just a boss to Roadhog, probably didn't even like him, and Roadhog was…was just a bodyguard to him. Right.

"'night, Roadie," he called out softly to the hulking silhouette of his companion. "Didn't ask if I could call you that. Sorry." He rolled over and fell asleep unusually quickly. He still wasn't sure why just riding a motorcycle was so exhausting.

Roadhog sighed, nudging Rat back awake. "Take off your prosthetics."

Junkrat woke with a start, reaching for a weapon and getting fouled in the sleeping bag. He thrashed for a moment, near panic, before he woke fully and recognized Roadhog. He blinked, a slow grin spreading across his face. "What was that?" he asked, the words registering a moment later.

He froze, swallowing hard, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "Well, about that…" Junkrat didn't like taking them off, not unless he was in a very secure location with only one way in or out and that way was packed with traps. A Junker getting caught with no way to run—because, for example, of only having one leg currently attached—was a dead Junker. It all came down to how much he trusted Roadhog. "It's not that I don't trust you," he said, deciding even as he said it that he meant it. "Just…habit, y'know?" Shuffling up and out of the Roadhog-sized bedroll, not looking away from Roadhog, Junkrat unfastened his leg and laid it aside. It was within easy reach, but it would still cost him at least a few seconds to put it back on.

Roadhog opened one of his saddlebags and took out his medkit. Most junkers didn't carry anything for soreness or blisters, but Roadhog felt he was getting too old for this shit. Same with his bedroll. He didn't need to sleep on something too small or too thin anymore. He made enough money that he could afford to spend it on little comforts, since there were few enough of those left. He grabbed his little tin of herbal salve and handed it to Rat. "That'll help."

Junkrat opened the tin and took a sniff, recoiling at the strong smell. Still, food was food, and a Junker couldn't afford to be picky. He scooped some on his fingers, licked one. Very strong, but he'd eaten worse.

Hog made a face under his mask, but he couldn't help but chuckle, kneeling. Grabbing the salve Rat had scooped out, he carefully rubbed it into Junkrat's skin where the prosthetic rubbed against him.

"Oh! Oh." Junkrat laughed softly, enjoying the feeling of Roadhog's massive hands, so gentle on his raw, sensitive skin. He couldn't tell for certain, but he didn't feel like Roadhog was laughing at him, at least not in a cruel way, just laughing because he'd done something silly. "Yeah, feels a lot better than it tastes! Thanks."

"Shouldn't hurt to eat it, but I wouldn't eat any more," he warned. "Can you do your own arm?"

Feeling rather in awe that Roadhog would share something this precious so casually, Junkrat nodded. Removing his second prosthetic, he smoothed what remained on his fingers over the stump where his other flesh arm used to be. He could still feel Roadhog's hand on his leg, his thigh, so close to…no. Professional. That was the nature of their relationship. It wasn't even a relationship, it was a…fuck, pig mask or not, Roadie was gorgeous.

Passing the tin back, Junkrat shook his head, hard, focusing very intently on his arm. He yawned, broadly and theatrically, nestling himself in the sleeping bag again. "'night. …Thanks."

"'Night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently we wrote another chapter of this? So I changed it to 3/? chapters, just in case we write more.


End file.
